When I Was Human
by agapimou34
Summary: John Watson loves his best friend with all his heart, of course. And despite what everyone else thinks, he knows Sherlock is not a cold sociopath. However, he also knows Sherlock is hiding something and he is determined to discover what. There is more to the genius detective than meets the eye and believe it or not, there once was a time when he was human (NOT JOHNLOCK!)
1. Chapter 1

**_Hello all! This is my first Sherlock_** ** _fic, and it will be a long one. I hope you all like it and reviews make me feel loved! :) also, constructive criticism_** ** _is helpful but flames are not. Thank you! (For the record, this scene and the ones that follow take place 6 years before the show, or, more specifically before John becomes prominent in Sherlock's life)_**

 _6 years before…_

Sherlock Holmes likes to think that his late twenties were perhaps the best years of his life. Mycroft was too busy starting his job to bother him, and for once he had managed to stay clean constantly. He found, interestingly, that without the burden of wondering where you'll get your next fix or whether or not your overprotective moron of a brother will be breathing down your neck makes life surprisingly pleasant. And he hadn't once felt the need to use again.

He sat on the bench beside the pond in Regent's Park, looking through cases and reviewing the website for a possible job at the Scotland yard, working for some bloke by the name of Greg Lestrade. _No doubt those incompetent fools need my help,_ he mused, _these are textbook mysteries. Even Mycroft could have a solid guess at who the killer is… God, it's no wonder London is a breeding ground for crime. Everyone can get away with anything._

He was in deep thought, about to enter his mind palace, filled with anticipation at the possible career opportunity, when a rough jolt bumped him to the side, knocking his mobile to the ground with an audible crack.

"Oh! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I am so sorry!" A heavily Scottish accented voice exclaimed, "Are you hurt?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in annoyance. Stupid, dull, people were too numerous. Boring. He looked up to see who the idiot was when he was met with a strange shock. Something he was… Dare he say _unknown._

A woman was standing over him, balancing haphazardly on black roller skates. Her face was round and soft, and freckles dotted the pale skin not unlike his own. She had the largest sea-glass colored eyes he had ever seen, and a part of his brain absently wondered which gene in the human DNA strand was capable of making such large irises. But perhaps the most striking of her appearance was her _huge, fiery, blazing orange_ curls. It was even curlier than his own mop of black tresses, whirling and unwinding in flyaways everywhere about her face, thick and bouncy and unruly, almost looking like a type of tall, wavy ivy vine. It contrasted sharply with her loose light green tee shirt, and he immediately deduced her long purple skirt as the cause of the collision.

"Did you ever think to wear more suitable garments when crashing about on those things?" He snapped, gesturing to her skates.

He expected her, almost _wanted_ her to be offended, to look at least annoyed. At least that was _familiar._ But instead, she smiled. _Smiled,_ a genuine grin of slightly dim but otherwise perfect teeth.

"Oh, yes, I see where that might raise a problem… But you see, this is my favorite skirt. I know the whole thought of luck is rubbish, but I swear that every time I wear it something good happens." She noted, her voice deeper than most women but filled with a light quality all the same.

Sherlock was honestly beginning to worry at his own lack of certainty on this person. _She's just an ordinary tourist in Regent's, she should be easy to read!_ Every alarm in his mind was going off. He just couldn't put his finger on this woman. Something was keeping him from deducing even the simplest of things.

"Like a cracked mobile?" Sherlock muttered, reaching for his phone and looking in dismay to see that it was completely ruined from the hard pavement.

The woman's face fell. "I am so sorry about that!" She said hurriedly, "I can pay for it, if you'd like… The name's Moira, by the way. Moira MacCallan."

Sherlock hesitated before shaking the hand she held out slowly. "Sherlock Holmes."

Moira smiled and cocked her head before she began giggling madly, causing the other to roll his eyes and scoff. However, something infatuated by her laugh- it was perfectly pitched, like something straight out of a movie. He had never experienced anything like the strange combinations of _sentiment_ brewing inside him. And it was only the first five minutes. This strange, odd, clumsy lady managed to fully engage the attention of the great Sherlock Holmes in only _5 minutes._ Something was wrong… It had to be. Sentiment was not an advantage, and it was certainly something he prided himself in not being keen on. So if this wasn't sentiment… Then what was it?

"You Brits," she finally managed to get out, "I can never get over your accents!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this, folding his arms. "You're from the hills of Mull, north side of Scotland." He stated, satisfied that he was over his strange stupor and able to make one deduction.

Moira collected herself, still chuckling a bit. "Yeah, that's right. I live with my Nana in the most lovely cottage, it truly is beautiful this time of year. I didn't want to leave, but she gets worried I'm not 'social enough' and won't let off 'til I go to civilization, unofficially dubbed 'London'... So, here I am, I guess."

The detective had to force his mouth from opening slightly. "You… You don't want to know how I know exactly where you're from?" He asked, used to expecting the normal 'you're a bloody psychic' or, 'freak, how did you know that?'. Never had his abilities been ignored so… politely.

Moira grinned, shrugging just a bit. "Doesn't matter. You got it right, didn't you?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, still unable to string together a biting insult or a remark strong enough to make her _go away._ And what was even worse was that for some reason, he didn't want her to.

"So, Sherl, I can call you that, right? Tell me where I can get some decent food around here! Only been to London twice, the first time being when I got lost hiking." She confirmed, face drawn deep in thought.

Before Sherlock could reply, her eyes lit up and she rambled on again. "Oh! Do you want to come with me? Get some food, yeah? I love spaghetti, I think that's my weak spot. How about you? What's your favorite food? Do you know any Italian people-"

"Wait." Sherlock bit out, looking at his watch and then back to her, "You've bumped into me while skating with obviously no experience, broke my mobile, and we've been talking here about pointless chatter for 5 minutes. That's 20 minutes in total since said accident occurred. You've only known me for _20 minutes,_ and you want _me_ to help _you_ to lunch?"

Moira kept that irritatingly warm smile and nodded. "Yep."

Sherlock straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin slightly. "You should know that I'm a cold and calculating genius who has absolutely every intention of having as little contact with the dull, moronic populous as possible, and I think you're a desperately clueless woman who has secluded her life in the wilds of Scotland and chosen the worst time possible to acquaint herself with such a pointless, stupid idea. I was about to solve a case and you interrupted me with your foolish skates, something even _children_ have outgrown. You want me to take time out of my activities, which I can assure you are far more superior than any of your intellect can understand, to take you to lunch?"

"That's what I said the first time, Sherl, now let's hurry up! I'm not quite sure how to get these things off and my stomach is growling. Up you get, now, before I fall on you again." Moira said whilst trying to balance herself on the skates, holding on to the edge of the bench while listening and staring at Sherlock with rapt focus.

The detective had to recover from a second unexpected blow that day, and this time his mouth dropped open for a good 3 seconds before he had the mind to close it. "Did you even hear a word of what I just said?" He snapped, trying to sound as bitter as possible.

"Yeah, yeah, you're a cold and calculating genius who has every intention of avoiding stupid people like me," she mimicked in a mock British accent, "now, what's your favorite lunch? We can compromise on where we wanna eat, I suppose, as a way of paying you back for your mobile there… So, what's your favorite food?"

Sherlock's jaw worked up and down, feeling like the dumbest fool on earth when he answered, "I don't eat much… But when I do I find Indian appealing."

The woman smiled, nodding as she grabbed onto his arm for support. "Great, then! I like Thai, myself. I should think there's a place that serves both."

The surge of electricity that bolted through him when they touched seemed to make him feel the most alive he'd ever felt. He avoided all human contact like it was the plague, but this ignorant, blissfully happy Moira seemed to have a rare exception.

"Well? I can't exactly skate there. Onward!" She proclaimed loudly, pointing in no direction in particular, laughing as she did so. Sherlock looked at her face, young, about 24, and her sparkling eyes that looked at him as if he was her best friend. He knew he should be reasonable, he knew he was being illogical, idiotic having been drawn to her. A million doubts flew through his mind, as well as a million questions. But looking at this woman, something exploded within him. He thinks it was the walls of his mind palace, brick and plaster shattered to make room for the new section dedicated to Moira MacCallan.


	2. Chapter 2

_Flash forward to 5 months…_

"You're telling me that you've never danced before?" Moira shouted over the loud music of the barn.

Sherlock nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. The night had been, like all others with Moira, spontaneous and surprising and slightly yet pleasantly unnerving. They were currently standing in the middle of a barn on a hillside in Mull, crowded with tipsy townspeople who were dancing to deafening music of bagpipes and drums and the fiddle. It was crowded and active and abuzz, everything Sherlock seemingly disliked, but somehow this time he didn't feel overwhelmed. Moira had dragged him here with such purpose, so set on having fun that the energy had seeped into him as well, making him a more 'human' version of himself.

"That's about to change, Sherly Holmes!" She yelled back happily, using the nickname he hated that he loved so much. She took him by the hand and they weaved in and out of the crowd, rushing towards the band that played on a tabletop. "Connor, Stephan, give us a holly!" She called, and the men nodded to her as they finished playing their song.

"Come on, then!" She giggled, leading Sherlock back over to where they were originally standing.

Sherlock felt blood rush to his cheeks, and his nerves ran wild. "Moira, I have never danced in my entire life, I'll make a fool out of myself. I'm not even familiar with Scottish traditional dan-"

Moira leaned in closer, cherry lips breathing air onto Sherlock's pale skin as she whispered gleefully, "Silly git, you don't _learn_ how to dance. You just do… Don't worry. I'll show you!"

The music came to an end, and everyone clapped as the band began to play a faster song, the bagpipes working furiously in a chorus of high and low notes strung together, like a melody of crazy celebration.

"Spin me, Sherl!" Moira cried as she jumped up on the table, pulling him with her. His heart was thundering in his ears. He had never done this before, never even done something _close_ to dancing _._

But up on the table with Moira, with everyone cheering and clapping, the music playing and the drunks drinking, the women and children laughing and talking, he forgot to feel embarrassed. He forgot Mycroft's voice ringing through his ears, ' _caring is not an advantage'._ He forgot the many who'd called him names, forgot the spiteful people at the yard where he'd just started working, forgot that he called himself a sociopath, forgot that he didn't, _wasn't supposed to_ approve of such stupidity, forgot that he was Sherlock Holmes, the cold genius consulting detective, forgot everything he was afraid of or thought he should or shouldn't be. And Sherlock Holmes, the bitter sociopath, spun Moira MacCallan with the biggest grin on his face, dimples he didn't even know he had appearing. He spun and spun and spun, recording every minute of this glorious moment, storing it away in his mind palace to be kept forever. All he saw was Moira's face, warm and laughing, her red hair blurred as they spun around and around. And though the crowd was roaring happily and the band was playing fervently, all he could hear was that voice of the clumsy woman who broke his mobile and took him to lunch three months ago.

It seemed like forever, but eventually the song ended and they hopped off the table. Sherlock was still buzzing from the high of it all, still reeling from newfound bubbliness and joy so much so that he didn't even notice when Moira led him out the back door where they were alone, under the vast visible stars and beside the quiet beach where waves lapped softly.

"Did you see me, Moira? Oh, bloody hell, I haven't danced before and that was… Wow. Thank you… For making me go with you, I mean, this was fun-"

A finger pressed lightly at his lips, silencing him. Moira was staring up at him with an attentiveness not unlike a painter studying a work of art.

He wasn't afraid. Not that much, really. In the beginning of their relationship, he was guarded. They had gone to lunch together every week after that, then started meeting up every other day. They talked about random things. Everything, really, from serious to stupid. She told him how she wanted to be a school teacher and was studying at the community college in Glasgow, and that her parents had died when she was very young. He told her he was a consulting detective and what that meant, about his experiments, his mind palace, everything. He wanted to stop himself, knowing he was being such an open book, even insulted her multiple times in the process of trying to figure her out. But she never faltered. She was never horrified or broken at his cold words, never turned away when he snapped at her. She listened intently, with an interest and encouraging tone as he told her of bacterial multiplication after death, even went to the morgue with him a few times. He told her every single gruesome detail he could think of, testing her, waiting with wary eyes to see if he hit her limit. But instead of getting bored with him or tired of his quirks, she stayed. She even met Mycroft once, hugging him like she did everyone. Sherlock enjoyed watching his brother stiffen in shock at her openness.

She had spent many a nights with him, doing nothing but watching as he performed an experiment, smiling as he got excited at the prospect of having someone so interested in what he had to say. They had lunch many more times, and she even got him to try dinner regularly. He was able to say at the end of the first month that she was his first best friend.

At the second month, they began touching. It wasn't anything too intimate at first, and it was subconscious. Sherlock only came to the startling realization when one night while watching a movie on the couch together, Moira started carding a hand through his hair lazily. They walked about London and Glasgow when they would meet together, and Sherlock found himself absentmindedly resting his hand on the small of her back, a brief touch of shoulders… Subtle things.

They met much more frequently then, almost everyday. They often stayed over at one another's, talking late into the night or engaging in some other random activity Sherlock had never done before, like the game 'Twister' or 'Chutes and Ladders'. The only board game he was ever familiar with was cluedo. Yet Moira had showed him how to play everything from _Connect Four_ to _Life,_ a game which he found surprisingly… fun. She had taught him a lot about that in the time they'd known each other. She had taken him up twice to meet her Nana, in that cottage she had once said was so lovely. And truthfully, it was. Sherlock had never seen a quainter stone house than the one on the hill where Moira grew up. Saorise, as her Nana made them call her, was the same type of person Moira was. She was warm and doting, very much the mother hen she'd been described as. As the first visit came to an end, Sherlock was still baffled that she was not repulsed by the man her granddaughter spent so much time with. When he gathered his courage to ask, she simply told him, " _You're an odd one, dearie, to be sure… But kind to my Moira and a very good lad. I can tell, ye know, excellent judge of character."_ Sherlock had actually smiled at her then, and allowed himself to nod in agreement with Moira. And by the time the first snow had melted and spring just began to bloom, Sherlock found all his walls were completely down. For the first time in his life he didn't feel like he had to be constantly aware, didn't have to scout her every possible intention. She was so footloose and accepting, so patient and open that he found himself trusting her. Wholly and completely, no strings attached.

In the third month, they had a fight. A big one. Sherlock remembers how empty yet filled with dread he felt when he had stormed out, leaving an equally angry Moira alone in her room. He had taken time off a case that weekend to visit her, and the two were having lunch when she had received her first letter of acceptance into the community college to get her degree in teaching. Initially, he had smiled and was happy for her. It was what she had wanted for a long time, and she deserved it. But then she began rambling again and again about all her hard work, how she slaved over the computer 5 hours every night to research and get homework done. She hadn't stop talking in the last two hours, and normally that wouldn't bother Sherlock. He had grown used to her lovely voice, and usually she had something very interesting or even amazing to tell him about. However, the more he listened to her, the more memories of long ago pushed their dark tendrils into his mind. Flashbacks of his father beating him with a belt, shouting gruffly that his grades weren't good enough, demanding why he couldn't be normal like Mycroft. " _You don't work hard at all, do you?"_ He remembered his father snapping, " _For once in your life, can't you stop being a freak of nature? A real man knows how to work hard."_ Those words had been branded into his mind that day. _A real man, a real hero, a real man…_ How many nights had he spent alone in despair, suffering in silence because no matter how hard he tried, he could never be seen as anything other than an outcast, even in his own family. He hadn't tried to be a hero ever again.

And here she was, going on about that stupid degree that he was sure he could get done in half the time with his eyes closed. So he muttered under his breath; " _It's just a piece of paper signed by a community college. What's so great about it?"_

Moira was furious, hands on her hips, fiery hair matching her mood. " _How dare you?! I worked my bloody hind off for this, what are you implying, that I'm just like everyone else? Am I as stupid as the rest of your 'dull populous'?"_ She had demanded.

Sherlock was stiff and silent, angry at something he could not name. She had her answer.

Moira's face resembled a sort of glass mirror, shattering when her friend's expression held firm as flint. Sherlock took the cue to leave, knowing he should very well assume this was all over. How dumb could he be, actually thinking someone would be his friend? Sentiment. Caring is not an advantage.

So he saw himself out, and the two didn't speak for two weeks. At least, before Moira showed up at his door one night, face no longer angry but sad. She had placed a lily white hand on his shoulder and murmured, " _Whoever said you weren't extraordinary was wrong."_

Sherlock had placed her deducing ability above his own that night as he laid his head on her shoulder, and all seemed to be as it was.

In the fourth month, they had their first kiss. Sherlock wasn't really sure what to expect; he had never done such a thing before. He was nervous that when night they took a ride on the London Eye, Moira going on about how wonderful stars are because even though they're so far away, they can still shine their light to be seen from earth. He never thought himself attractive. Quite ugly, actually. Strange looking. But whatever Moira saw in him had made her want to stay, and now he was wondering how many ways he could mess this up.

" _Sherl,"_ Moira had said suddenly, and his eyes drank in the sight of the angelic face and the wild red curls, blue eyes glimmering in affection.

" _Yes?"_ He had murmured, voice low and nervous. Had she finally come to her senses? Did she finally see him as everyone else did? He wasn't sure he was ready to stop being her friend.

" _You're my prince."_ She whispered, and sooner than his mind could process it, their lips were touching. It was a delicate kiss, soft yet filled with so much. And for the first time in his entire life, William Sherlock Scott Holmes's mind was completely blank. Devoid of any thoughts whatsoever, no distractions, no doubts, no fears… Just that one moment. Just that one second.

The kiss ended when they needed air, and only then did Sherlock realize he was panting. He had looked at her, eyes closed lightly when he felt her hand caress his cheek. He exhaled, smiling at her, sated. " _... My first kiss."_

Moira continued to look at him, hand staying soothingly on his skin. " _Mine, too."_

"Sherlock," Moira's voice dragged him out of his mind palace, out of the memories of their entire relationship and back to the present.

They were alone, under the trees, and she was folded carefully on his lap, hands carding through his curls. "Yes?" He whispered, voice huskier than he meant.

Moira's hand touched lower to his chest, palm spread across his clavicle. Her lips were red and her eyes captured his, and he stared back at her like her face held the secrets to the universe.

"Make me yours." She murmured, voice barely audible.

That night was the best night in Sherlock's entire life. He has it logged to date in the mind palace, which was now illuminated and brighter than it ever had been before, radiant and neat and alive with a glow that spilled from Moira's room. He took in every detail so that he might remember every glance and tender touch. Somehow, in his blissfully ignorant trance, he forgot what led up to the two lying together under the stars in the glade by the beach, covered only by the tall grass, clothes tossed aside. It was passion and it was fury, it was glory and wildness and spirit and love. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. They were a mess of tangled limbs, hands in each others curls. They didn't speak much. They didn't have to. They only smiled at each other, exchanging the occasional kiss as they basked in the afterglow of paradise.

"I love you, Sherlock," She whispered, brushing a curl from his face, "you're so special and magnificent. Don't ever believe anyone who says otherwise, do you promise?"

Sherlock's voice was thick and he held her closer, trying to convey what words just couldn't. "I promise."

 _2 weeks later…_

"Sherlock, stop!"

Mycroft's voice barely registered as Sherlock ran towards the police tape, pushing anything and anyone aside. The paramedics shouted at him to stop, but he didn't listen. He couldn't hear a sound other than his heart in his ears.

He caught a glimpse of a white sheet drawn over an even whiter hand, blood staining the walls and the stairwell, before a large arm grabbed him and dragged him away, preventing him from seeing anything more.

He doesn't remember screaming or clawing or fighting, even though everyone said he did. All he remembers was his brother holding him in the car ride home, saying nothing and doing nothing but rubbing his back. He was numb.

Nobody asked him, but everybody was wondering why he hadn't attended the funeral. Mycroft made his guards block off the flat, keeping the press at bay as Sherlock spent the entire week in his room. He didn't eat, he didn't sleep, he didn't even notice when an IV had been placed in his arm to supplement nutrients, when he had been confined to bed with a doctor on stand by at all times, Mycroft watching him from the doorway with a pained expression on his face.

He didn't register anything because he couldn't. He was in his mind palace, busy shattering vases in anger, ruining walls in desperate, ragged sobs, and finally blocking off the door to Moira's room, locking it so it would never be opened again. He had tried destroying it, burning it, anything to get rid of it. But for some reason, the walls would not splinter. The door wouldn't break down, even the glass windows that were now darkened would not shatter. It remained, no matter how much he wanted to get rid of it. No matter how much it hurt and twisted his insides.

The palace was left in ruins, dark and dingy, rugs dirty and curtains shredded. Mycroft was right, he thought, caring is not an advantage.

That day, Sherlock Holmes vowed two things.

He would find the man who did this, and…

He would never, _ever_ love again.


End file.
